Scythe

Before she opens her eyes mama knows

It will be today

Her eyes open to greet the sun

She raises her hands in a yawning stretch

Pulling herself from under the heavy warmth of the quilt

Mama stands leaning on the bed, breathes in, breathes out

Daddy wakes and smiles at the news

They dress in silence, remembering a small bag before opening the door

The drive to the hospital is quick, charged with electric expectancy.

 

Inside the sliding doors, Daddy is detained at a desk

Mama is ushered into a cold wheelchair

Upstairs she must change from her warm clothes into a starchy gown

Lying in a bed adorned only with a threadbare sheet

Mama’s arm is inserted needles, Mama’s belly is tightly wrapped

In the bed there is no freedom, and there is no freedom from the bed

She’s not to sit up, not to stand

All eyes on the ticking machine

When the doctor decides the baby should come

All voices are rough, tense

It’s time for the baby. He’s not here so you must

push more, breathe less, lie flat, hush now

The baby does come, because that’s what babies do

and is wiped, poked, tightly wrapped, monitored

While the mother waits until tomorrow

To wrap baby in heavy warmth at home

unhindered